Captive
by Bethany Ruth
Summary: Eames is being held captive. Then again, so was Arthur, in a sense. Rated for mild gore.


Stockholm syndrome, it's called. The dictionary definition is: Feelings of trust or affection felt in many cases of kidnapping or hostage-taking by a victim toward a captor. I've been here for three days. Tied up, hands behind my back around a vicious, rusty metal pole. My legs have lost feeling: I've been sat down, so I'm sure – if – I do eventually get to stand up again that I will have an extraordinary case of pins and needles. Although I can't exactly feel the ground beneath me anymore, I remember from a few days ago that it is also some sort of metal/wire mesh type of shin dig. I honestly think I'm in a cage. A big, metal cage, for confining dangerous animals: it's cold in this room. It's probably dark too. It'd fit that it's dark in a room like this. The blindfold over my eyes restricts my knowledge of what's actually tying me up, but it feels like rope.

I have raw wounds on my wrists from where it's rubbed at my flesh, and it honestly hurts like fuck. I guess it's nothing compared to the near-unbearable gnawing at the inside of my stomach: I haven't eaten anything more than three slices of bread in the last three days. There are slowly healing wounds on my bare chest that I can't recall the origins of. Long, red, raw scars that I can physically feel getting deeper, gorier, stretch across my shoulders, around my ribs, and on my forearms. Dried sweat lingers on my body, giving my body a glean that I can feel. I'm constantly tired and I have no way of telling if it's night or day, I don't think there's a window in this claustrophobic space. I suppose I can't complain about the conditions in this here cage though. It's not all bad. Sometimes _he_ comes in. He who brought me here in the first place. He who has the golden voice and the angel's touch. He who I have come to love like a master.

A large, scraping sound consumes the small enclosure in which my cage is sat and my ears perk up excitedly – much like a dog. I want to call out and ask if it's him, but my throat is dry and sore: I couldn't possibly make a sound beyond a groan or a croak. When I hear him walk towards me however, all my questions are answered: it's definitely his dignified steps heading towards me. Precise, measured, _perfect_. That's what he is: he is absolutely _perfect_. His voice is what keeps me going when it gets hard, his soft touch is what I think of when I can't rest, and I've never seen him with my own eyes but I know he looks perfect too.

"Eames?" Ah, perfection. That warm voice fills me. I lift my head from where it was idly resting on my chest, keen to please him however I can. "Eames, if you can hear and understand me, nod your head once." And so I did. I nodded sharply, or as sharp as I could – I was a little lightheaded from the lack of nutrition. "Good. I worry about you in here sometimes. I'm afraid you're lonely." I shook my head. "Oh Eames, there's no need to hide it – I know you miss me when I'm gone. That's alright: I miss you too." Oh that hand! That hand cards through my hair and I lean into it, nuzzling into him like the saviour that he is. "Mmm," He moaned as I felt his hip come towards my head, I bumped my head to it faithfully, trying to tell him how much I appreciated what he was doing for me. "Eames. I promise it won't be like this forever. One day you'll be able to see me. Be able to come out of this cage and live with me. I promise." I used what I had of a voice to moan my gratitude for him. I could feel his smile fill the room as he bent down so his face was level with mine. His voice lowered as he said: "I...I really like you Eames. I think we can have something – something special." I smiled – it hurt because of my busted lip – and nodded, craving this man in front of me. My knight in shining armour. "Eames can I- can I kiss you?" I was nodding desperately before he got out 'I won't hurt you I promise.' Lips of the softest satin gently touched mine and I groaned embarrassingly loudly at the feeling of skin on me. I hadn't felt anything in my body other than the usual pain for three whole days. The sensation was extraordinary and I wanted more so badly. I leaned forward as I felt him pull back a little. "I haven't hurt you have I?" My head was shaking with such vehemence I could barely bring myself round to focus enough and hear him laugh. "Alright Eames, alright. One more kiss and then I'll have to leave again." I whimpered like a puppy left home alone. His hand came up to stroke my head and face and I moaned happy, little moans at his affection, nuzzling and snuffling – so desperate for his attention. My legs shifted as I tried to sit up straighter, wanting to be nearer to him. "I know Eames; I don't want to leave either. Sometimes I wish I could just stay here with you all day. Untie you and just lie in your arms listening to you breathe. Would you like that, Eames?"

Again I nodded, snuffling further into his hands. I whined – getting his attention more efficiently – and pouted my swollen lips at him, expressing my overwhelming desire to have his lips on mine again. My wish was granted as his hands held my face still, and his lips pressed to mine – a little more firmly this time. I groaned again, my eyes falling shut. As I sensed him beginning to pull back, I leaned forward – injuries be damned – and kept our lips in contact. He held my jaw with a stronger grip and kissed me harder, moaning a little himself. It took him a while to pull back, continuously coming back for smaller and smaller pecks of my battered, bruised lips. "Okay, now I really have to go." He sounded a little breathless; I loved the pride at knowing that _I _made him like that. "I'm already late. I'll come back later I promise, I'll try to bring food." I nodded in understanding. He brushed over my head once more with his hand, and then straightened out. I slowly fell asleep to the echoing sound of his perfect footsteps, followed by the eerie scraping of the heavy door.

...

As Arthur closed the three doors to his private enclosure, he contemplated the actual possibility of one day getting Eames out of there. He wanted to release his captive so badly, but knew it would be impossible to get him out undetected. The people here had given him a brutal beating, and they all thought he was dead. Arthur said he'd dealt with him, and then snuck him into this secret chamber, praying nobody ever saw him leave or enter. It was difficult, keeping an undisclosed fact hidden, especially this close to the main base. But Arthur was finding a way. Sneaking food was the hardest. The others would ask why he'd taken so much in the cafeteria. Saying that he was just that hungry wouldn't last for long: everyone knew he wasn't much of an eater. There was just something about Eames though; Arthur couldn't..._leave_ him there. They were surrounding him in the darkened warehouse, tearing into him like he'd just turned a gun on them. He hadn't. He wasn't even a part of the plan; he was just...passing by. Arthur took on all the guilt for the whole unit, incapable of just leaving him to bleed out.

Arthur told the others to leave, said he'd take care of this one. They all left, like Arthur knew they would, fucking _robots_. That's all they were to Arthur: robots unqualified to feel human emotions. Like remorse, pain, guilt. So Arthur kept Eames, hidden away from this ugly, grimy world. And one day, Arthur was convinced he'd get them both out of here.

After all, he was as much a captive as Eames.


End file.
